Coming Home
by ScribbledInHaste
Summary: Zevran/FWarden Dwarf. One shot. A short story about Natia returning to Orzammar with her new Warden status. Not entirely canon. Some romance. All characters and settings belong to Bioware. I don't own them, I just love them. Rated T for language.


"By the fucking stone, Rica. You've got bruises on your arm. Do you think I'm blind, or just stupid?" Natia shouted, running her grubby hands through her short, tangled hair.

Rica hesitated. "I-I live in the palace now," she continued, earnestly. "I have a son. He's next in line to the throne. Can you believe it?"

"No," Natia said flatly. "How can he be next in line when no one can decide what they think of his father?"

"The prince is a good man—"

"So good he keep you under lock and key? So good he bruises you? What does he do to my nephew? Why are you even still here?"

Rica coloured at this, but pressed on. "We have status now. You wouldn't understand. You're protected by that Warden title. Don't you remember what it was like? What, you just leave and forget?"

Natia's face turned particularly ugly. "Leave?" she hissed. "No, Rica. I didn't leave. I was dragged against my will. Something I suspect you know a lot about," she glanced at her sister's arms again. "But at least I can see my situation for what it is. At least I don't have to pretend."

"I'm not pretending. The prince and I—"

"Don't!"

"—love each other."

Natia rolled her eyes and snorted. "Really? Okay. Fine. That's the story. Whatever." She turned abruptly and marched off.

"Where are you going? What are you going to do?" Rica called out.

"What I always do," Natia shouted back, not turning her head. She slammed the front door of Rica's new estate home hard enough to make the fine china on the table wobble.

Rica paled at this. She was trembling. The rest of the party stood around awkwardly for a moment.

"Maybe you should sit down," Wynne said gently after a moment. She came forward, cupped Rica's elbow and led the young dwarf to a low settee in the corner.

"Thank you," Rica muttered, still staring in the direction her sister had marched off in.

"Not at all. I'll go find some tea or something warm to drink. Best thing after sibling rivalry," Wynne patted Rica on the shoulder, then set off in search of a servant.

"Rivalry," Rica laughed hollowly. "I don't think that's all that was. Do you?"

Zevran had been staring thoughtfully into the distance. "Hmm," he asked quietly, realizing that Rica was addressing him. "Oh, well. . . I have no siblings that I know of, so I am hardly in a position to judge."

"But you've traveled with Nattie. You've fought with her. You know how she is. . ."

Zevran shrugged, trying to lighten the situation. "Well, it is a difficult situation. And your sister has been under an enormous amount of stress. I do what I can," here Rica blushed slightly and looked away, "but she is still tense. She probably didn't mean to be so forceful."

Rica shook her head, pulling a face. "I thought you'd traveled with her. Don't you know her at all? She meant it. She always means it." Rica's bright round eyes searched Zevran's face for a moment. "You don't really know her, do you?" she asked softly.

"No?" Zevran asked. "Then tell me." He sat down gracefully beside her, focusing his attention on her.

"I think" Rica began hesitantly, "I think my sister was always going to be this way, you know? She was always a bit. . . blunt. I know that my family parades me as the great beauty, the saving grace of our worthless, casteless bunch—"

"You're reputation is well deserved. You are quite stunning," Zevran interjected, unable to pass up the opportunity to flatter the dwarf and watch the light shade of blush colour her creamy skin.

"Oh," Rica ducked her head and smiled, "I-I, thank you. But I know I'm really no prettier than Natia. Cleaner, maybe. But I think the only reason I was chosen instead of her was because of her attitude." Rica shrugged.

"Your sister can be a bit to take, yes," Zevran smiled softly.

"Especially when she thinks she knows what's right. Which is all the time. But, look, here's the thing. . . s-she wasn't wrong. Not exactly. About, about what was happening to me. It's the only way, and I do love Bhelen, but—but. . . well, she wasn't entirely wrong." Rica stammered, refusing to meet Zevran's gaze. "She just refuses to see our situation for what it is. She never liked it, Zevran. I knew it was the only way. I may be pretty, but I'm not stupid. I knew what I was trading in exchange for having a child who wouldn't be casteless. I was willing to do it. But Natia, she just can never accept anything. She's always fighting the way things are." Here Rica paused, twisting her fingers in her lap. Zevran sat patiently, waiting for her to find the words. Finally she lifted her eyes to meet his, and continued. "I don't want to insult you. I've heard some things about you—"

"All lies, I assure you, except the ones praising my sexual prowess, of course," Zevran replied, smoothly.

Rica arched an eyebrow, colouring more deeply. Zevran reflected that she was really quite charming with the rosey flush spreading across her cheeks. "I—I know a little, a very little, about your past. Mostly Wynne has lectured me to stay away from you!"

"A wise woman." Zevran chuckled, clearly not offended.

Rica took courage from this acceptance. "Well, I don't want to offend you, or make you think that I look down on you for who you are, for what you've done. And I'm sure Natia doesn't either. Growing up in a brothel can't have been easy."

"Oh, it had its benefits," Zevran purred, just to watch Rica's blush deepen. He could see why the family hung their fortunes on her allure. She projected a delicate innocence completely at odds with her sisters brash belligerence.

"Oh," Rica fell silent for a moment. "Well, uh, my situation is, was, well, I don't know if it was different or not. My parents, everyone really, held a great hope on Bhelen's ability to turn me into a lady. But we weren't fooling ourselves. The objective was clear. I needed to seduce him." She looked down in embarrassment, long, dark lashes brushing her rosey cheeks. "Natia used to object, she used to call my parents brothel owners, say they were whoring me out. S-she wasn't wrong. The plan was to catch the eye of an influential man, take him to bed, bear his child, and somehow tie my family to his. . . "

"I understand what people must do in difficult situations," Zevran said. Though his tone was still light and relaxed, Rica thought she heard something deeper in that sentence.

"Well, she hated it. She hated what they were doing to me, and she hated my own complacency. She never understood that this was the best way to improve our situation." Rica clenched her fists together in her lap in exasperation. This was clearly an old fight, and one she had never won with her sister. "I'm not even sure that she _wanted_ to improve our situation. She detested all the castes. She just can't work within tradition. She's always 'flinging herself at the stone'. That's an old dwarf saying. It means. . . well it means she's stubborn. She tries to force things that can't be forced. She doesn't realize she'll break before the stone ever don't change. And we may not like it, but we have to accept it. Natia can't. But. . ."

Zevran waited companionably, his hands clasped loosely, elbows resting on his knees. Rica took a few struggling breaths, smoothed her fine dress over her knees, and then rested her hands in her lap, demurely folded. Finally, she found her voice again.

"But. . . I think that my. . . my actions, and my path to success, they drove Natia to do some pretty desperate things. . . she decided that the only way to save me from my fate was to give my family the upward mobility they craved some other way. So, she took matters into her own hands. I—I don't know how much you know about the casteless, or about the dwarfs. About our society. I ask because I know nothing of elves. . . so I wonder. . ."

"Natia has never told me anything about her life here. I am as ignorant of life in Orzammar as you claim to be about my own race," Zevran answered, a small crease furrowing his brow. Why was it that Natia had never spoken about her life here? He had freely told her of his past. Had he never asked her? Had no one else ever asked? He didn't remember it ever coming up in the companionable circle around the fire at camp. Though he knew the histories and circumstances of all the rest of his companions, he knew almost nothing of Natia.

"To be noticed as a casteless is to invite trouble. Everything we touch is poisoned. Everywhere we live is unclean. We're, we're a disease that all the castes pretend don't exist. If they see us, they exterminate us, and purify wherever we've been with rituals. We're branded at childhood so that we're easy to identify from a distance. That way, the nobles can avoid sullying themselves by accidentally speaking to us or acknowledging our presence. Well, we basically don't exist. We can't work. We can't own homes. It's as if we aren't here." Rica unconsciously ran a finger over the tattoo under her eye, before letting her hands fall back into her lap.

Zevran studied the tattoo with new interest. He had noticed that several dwarfs in the lower part of the city bore it. Before meeting Natia, he'd never seen any dwarf with a facial tattoo before, and had thought nothing of it, assuming it was there by choice, or was a mark of some gang she had once worked with. Since coming to Orzammar, he'd begun to wonder.

"Natia embraced that," Rica continued. "She used her invisibility to her advantage. She—she became a hired thug, basically. It allowed her to earn money and provide for us. It didn't bring us status, but it brought a lot of other things. A home. Financial security. Respect from other casteless and even some of the lower castes. It was a fearful respect, but still respect. I think she hoped it would be enough for my family. I—I don't even know how many people she's hurt, or killed. I stopped asking. I remember the first. She came home with the others, elated and drunk with power." Rica's voice turned hard here. "It was disgusting."

"Difficult situations," Zevran repeated, a slight edge in his voice, but his companionable expression didn't change. Rica suddenly wondered at this. She took a deep breath. Was Zevran really just a child of a brothel who was now skilled with a blade. He had seemed more like a dangerous lover than a dangerous fighter. But something in his tone here made Rica pause.

"I know what difficult situations can drive us to do," she said softly. It was as close as she could come to an apology. "Finally the thugs left, cheering their victory over the scum of dusttown, and I thought I'd be able to talk to Nattie. I went up to her to discuss what had happened, give her comfort, maybe convince her to stop. But she gave me the coldest look I had ever seen. Defiant. Angry. She sneered at me, said I was weak. S—She wasn't my sister anymore. I didn't say anything. I just went to bed and left her in the front room." Rica swallowed, and shook her head. "It was an hour or so later that I heard her being sick. Then I heard her sobbing. She was trying to hide it, to be as quiet as she could. I think I should have gone to her. I think it might have made a difference. But I remembered that look of anger, and I didn't go." She fell silent, shrugging. "After that, she was a killer."

"I see," Zevran said slowly.

"Do you? You travel with her. You've seen the anger, I'm sure."

Zevran chuckled at this, nodding. Yes, the Warden was definitely angry. It was practically her default position.

"And the defiance. But, I don't know what happened to the remorse. The revulsion. I think it's still there. I think she's afraid of what she's become. And I know she hates us for making her do it. We didn't ask her to. . . but . . ."

"She is protective."

"Yes." Rica hesitated, but decided she needed to push on. "She is dangerous too. This isn't just a spat between sisters. You must know what she is capable of." Rica began to shake again, "I'm afraid of what she will do. . . to the Prince. . . to my future. . . "

It was then that Wynne came back with the tea, giving Zevran a stern and disapproving look and hushing and soothing Rica's shakes and sobs. Zevran wasn't sure when Rica had begun to cry.

He stood up. "I will go find Natia," he said softly. "But I'm sure she doesn't intend to jeopardize her sister's happiness." He said it smoothy and easily, the lie slipping out with a smile and a jaunty wave.

It wasn't that hard to find Natia, she hadn't bothered to cover her tracks or be careful as she wandered through dusttown. Everyone there was able to point Zevran in the direction of the Warden. He found her in what served as a tavern in these parts, at the bottom of what must have been her fourth pint of ale.

"Curse the fissure, Zev, whaddayou want?" she slurred when he sat down beside her.

"Hello, my darling," he replied, gesturing the barman for a pint as well.

"Yeah, right. Hi. So, you've met my sister now. She's something right? Hot. Kind. Accommodating. Soft in all the right places. Can't tell me _you_ didn't notice."

He shrugged, "she's a beautiful woman using her charm to her advantage."

"Humph," Natia replied. She took a long drag on her tankard. "She isn't gaining any advantage from this."

"And that is up to you to decide?"

"It appears to be, doesn't it?" Natia snapped back. "She's been hurt."

"Life does that to people," Zevran replied with a shrug.

"Damn the stone, I should've left you at the camp," Natia muttered.

"And brought Alistair along?" Zevran asked quietly. "He would hate to see your sister in her current condition. He is quite chivalrous that way. No doubt he would petition the king to secure adequate protection for your family."

Natia frowned, but didn't respond.

"Why didn't you bring him here? He has hardly left your side since our adventures began. Yet you leave him behind when we visit your home?"

Natia bit her lip. "Just didn't," she replied shortly, taking another swig from her pint.

"I wonder if you did not wish him to see this, yes?"

"See what?"

"You, as you were before the Wardens. Does he know that you hate your title? That you feel you were dragged into this against your will? The title of a Warden means quite a lot to Alistair. But what does it mean to you?"

"It meant life. They were going to kill me before Duncan found me, did Rica tell you that?"

"No."

"Yeah, well. They were going to kill me, and even then I didn't want to leave this Gawdawful place. I still refused to go. I figured I'd take them down with me, or find a way to escape. I wanted to stay." Natia said with as much conviction as she could muster.

"Did you?"

"I—I needed to stay," she corrected. "I couldn't leave them. But then that damned Warden Duncan goes and conscripts me. He fuckin' conscripts me. Did you know they could do that? They're worse than the nobles, flinging their weight around and forcing others to comply."

"He probably thought he could save you," Zevran replied.

"Whatever. Why me?" Natia looked up, meeting Zevran's gaze for the first time. He was taken aback to see her eyes were swimming with unshed tears and slightly out of focus. Maybe she'd downed more than four pints, he thought. She was small, and had never been much of a drinker, at least as long as he'd known her. She broke eye contact, impatiently dashed the back of a grubby hand across her eyes and took a log swig from her pint.

"You're a fighter, and a pretty good one. You did best me, after all, and I am extraordinarily talented."

"No," Natia shook her head, slapping the pint down on the table for emphasis and spilling its contents, "I mean, why not Leskie? Why _only_ me? He's bigger, stronger, probably smarter. I dunno. He told me to go, yaknow. They all did. 'Go, go, have a better life. Save yourself.' Not like I had a choice." Another swig. "Fucking conscription. Why not put that power to good use, ya'know? Conscript Bhelen, he's a good fighter, even if he is a total ass. He shoulda been the one risking his neck with the darkspawn. Anything to get him the fuck outta here." She shook her head, and reached for her beer again.

"I don't know why, Natia. I don't know these other men you speak of."

"Yes you do. You know one o'them." Natia laughed one of the nastier laughs Zevran had heard. Part way through, the chuckle broke in a choked sob. Setting the beer down, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "We killed Leskie yesterday. In the warehouse," she mumbled, raking her hands over her face.

Zevran raised his eyebrows. "The dark-haired beardless rogue who double-crossed us?"

Natia nodded without meeting his gaze. She tipped her mug back, draining the last of the beer, and signaled the bar tender for another.

"He tried to kill me," she said in a flat voice, addressing the empty mug in front of her. "My best friend, did you know that? Really, my only friend. And he sells me out. Once, I would've trusted him with my life. I did, actually." Natia fell silent. To Zevran's horror, tears started to roll down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around the empty beer mug and nuzzled her head down beside it. Her eyes shut tight, her body held rigid, and silent tears leaking down onto the table, turning dust into mud.

The barmaid came over with another tankard and set it down. Natia reached for it but Zevran deftly moved it beyond her reach.

"Whatthehell?" She roared, her pretty features contorting.

"I think, perhaps, you have had enough."

"I didn't invite you to join this party in order to tell me what you think," Natia snapped, making another lunge for the beer. Zevran held it back.

"Nontheless—" he began.

"Oh, fine. You think I've had enough? You think you're better than me? That you know better than me? Well, now you know what I am, right? I'm a fucking brand." She was yelling, and the patrons of the bar were staring and shaking their heads. Natia turned, noticing the others in the bar for the first time. "Yeah," she hollered, jerking to her feet so that her stool toppled over. "I'm looking at you. At all of you! You think I'm not good enough for you? I bested your best warriors in the tournament. I did, and you fucking know it. And I fought off the blight at Redcliffe, and killed all the crazy circle mages. And now I gotta go kill some fucking Archdemon. So you think what you want, but I'm the only thing standing between you all and the blight. And you know it. And now that I have this fancy title you gotta respect me. Isn't it just _killing_ you! Respect the duster." She finished, her chest heaving. No one made any moves. The bar was deadly silent. Natia looked around, wild eyes in a red, tear and mud-streaked face. Then she abruptly stormed off.

Zevran laid down some coins for the beer and made a flourishing bow. "Thank you, thank you for your attention," he said, flashing his mocking grin, "we'll be here all week." Then he strode out after the Warden.

He found her outside, curled up in the dust, knees pulled to her chest. He sat down beside her. The tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was hiccuping quietly, but the rage seemed to be gone. They sat that way for a while, as the torches were put out around them, signaling nightfall.

"I didn't want him to know," Natia finally said, softly.

"Hmm?" Zevran asked, jerked out of his own lascivious thoughts, though he could see that now was not the time to act on them.

"I told Alistair to stay behind because I didn't want him to know who I really am. I didn't want him to see me treated like this." She smiled a wobbly smile. "He thinks I'm worth something," she said softly.

"But you don't?"

Natia shrugged. "I'm a blade. All my worth is found in fighting. That's all I've ever been good at. And here, even that doesn't count."

"Then they are foolish," Zevran responded with an indifferent shrug. "And any one of them would discover what a blade is worth were they to meet you in a dark alley."

"Yeah," Natia smiled again, and shivered slightly in the growing darkness. "And now I'll have to kill my Prince, my Sister's partner, the father of my nephew. Wasn't bad enough killing my best friend."

"What makes you think you have to do any of this?" Zevran asked quietly.

"You wouldn't understand," Natia replied. "You aren't a duster."

"Then make me understand."

"She's my sister," Natia said finally. "If Bhelen's gone, her son will still have status. My family will finally get everything they want. I-I just dunno if I can do it."

"You have the skill, of that I am sure. And the title of Warden will open many doors that might otherwise be closed," Zevran replied.

"Yeah. . . yeah." Natia sighed. "But she won't ever forgive me for this one. I dunno if I'll ever forgive myself. She says she loves him. Fuckin fracture," Natia grumbled, "I dunno if I can kill someone my sister claims she loves, even if he is an asshole." She shivered again.

Zevran wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her companionably against his side. "Perhaps you should sleep on it," He said softly.

"Yeah. . . yeah. Maybe." She hiccupped and shivered quietly for a few moments, but gradually her breathing slowed and soon she was asleep. He stared up to the roof of the city for a while, wondering if the stars were visible above. The weight of the stones was an uneasy thing for an elf to deal with, even one bred and raised in the city.

He wondered about Natia. This small dwarf leaning limply against him and snoring softly had bested him in combat. It had been one of the first things that attracted him to her, the way she fought. She had almost none of his finesse, but moved with a speed and deadly determination that was difficult to predict or counter. She had had no formal training, had clearly never practiced any drills or forms. Her skills were quick, vicious, opportunistic and dirty. And now he could see clearly where she had acquired them, and the naked rage that fueled them. Though his face still wore the same placid and slightly amused expression it almost always did, he felt a small and unfamiliar stirring of emotion in his chest.

Natia deserved better, Zevran thought. And he intended to give her what he could, in the only way he knew how. Once he was sure she was asleep, he hefted her small sturdy frame over his shoulder and headed back to her parents house. He entered with all the stealth of an assassin, though he need not have. Her family were snoring loud enough that the Tal Vashoth could have been partying in the living room, and none would have heard it. He gently laid Natia down in a chair by the fire in the front room, and then headed to the palace, his favourite blade held loosely in hand.

Natia woke up to a rolling stomach, pounding head and aching crick in her neck from sleeping in a chair, apparently. She groaned softly, scrunching her face up in a desperate attempt to remember where she was and what had happened, her hands flying to her hips. She took a deep breath as her fingers wrapped around the comforting handles of her blades, still resting along the outer edge of each thigh. So, wherever she was, at least she was armed.

It took her a few seconds to realize that she was in her parents' house and that, judging by taste in the air, it was probably really early in the morning, or really late at night. She stood unsteadily and felt her stomach roll, bringing up all the memories of the night before, and threatening to bring up her supper.

"Right," she said softly, remembering the fight with Rica and drinking. _Well, that's okay. All normal dwarfish things there. _Sibling rivalry and alcohol were basically two of the founding pillars of patriotism among dwarfs if Bhelen and his brothers were any indication.

A dimmer memory surfaced as she slowly drank a ladle full of cool water from the cistern in the corner of the pantry. _Yelling? Swearing and taunting unbranded dwarfs? Zevran?_ She couldn't entirely remember that part, and abruptly decided she didn't want to.

_Leskie_. That she remembered, whether she wanted to or not. Natia bit her lip and sagged over the cistern, dropping the ladle on the dusty ground, as the tears came again. Hadn't she cried enough last night? Drank and cried, and she needed to move on. Today was another day for killing.

But she couldn't move on. Not yet. She muffled her tears, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. Her left hand gripped her dagger, remembering what it felt like to ram it home in Leskie's gut. Remembering his breath on her face as she did so. Remembering the surprise in his eyes, the gasp at the back of his throat. Remembering him dying beneath her hand, the battle still raging on around her, as she lowered her oldest friend to the floor. She'd pulled away, intending to turn and help Zevran and Wynne, but Leskie's hand had closed around her wrist, and she hadn't been able to leave him. While her party dispatched the few thugs Leskie had been able to rally to his side, she held his hand and watched him bleed out.

She hadn't asked him why. She knew why. Gold, plain and simple. It made sense. Betrayal usually did.

She hadn't asked his forgiveness for leaving. He'd already given it when she left all those months before. He never had and never would begrudge her her exit from this hell hole. That didn't change things.

Intellectually, she understood it all. Hell, in the darkest corner of her heart she admitted that she might have done the same thing, were their roles reversed. "No I would never have done that," she fiercely whispered to herself, grinding her teeth. But she didn't believe it. If the stakes were high enough. If the money was good enough. If Rica were endangered. If her family were starving. If. . .

Their friendship had always been a matter of convenience. That he turned on her for a profit was hardly surprising. But it hurt, nonetheless.

She wondered what had driven Leskie to betray her. It could be any number of things. She hoped it had been something drastic. An ill family member, or a close friend in trouble. She hoped it was something more than just money. She hoped he had agonized over the decision. That she had meant as much to him as he had to her. She hoped that, wherever he was now, he understood that she forgave him, and that he also forgave her.

Slowly, thankfully, her tears subsided. She scrubbed at her face with her perpetually filthy hands, reflecting on what Rica would say about Natia's appearance, were she here. Rica. That was another hurdle. Bhelen would have to die, that was a given. She wasn't sure her title as a Warden would protect her from the repercussions of killing the crown prince of Orzammar, but it didn't matter. Rica would be better off if he was dead. Her son was still Bhelen's by blood, so the family would still have the upward mobility they had always craved. It had to be done, and the sooner the better. She stood up carefully, retrieved the fallen ladle from the floor, and tried another sip from the cistern, since the first had not caused her to be sick. Doing it now was a good idea. It was late at night. Perhaps she could get away with it unseen. Stealth had never been Natia's strong suit, but she would try if for no other reason than to try to hang onto Rica's love for her. If Rica didn't know her man had died by Natia's hand, maybe they would still be sisters in more than name when this was done.

It was then that she heard the softest scraping of boot leather outside the front door. Someone was walking by. _Might be nothing_ she thought as she softly hung the ladle on its hook and wrapped her hands around the hilts of her daggers. _Sure, might be nothing at four in the morning_. This thought flitted across her mind as she heard the latch being lifted. Then her mind went blank with rage, as her twin daggers sang free of their sheaths.

She stalked like a shadow to stand with her back flattened against the wall beside the door, watching it slowly open inwards. Whoever it was, was going to great pains to be as silent as possible. She watched the gap widen beside her, inch by inch, as a dark shape slowly tried to edge into the room.

When the intruder was half-way in, Natia launched herself at him. He made a surprised 'oof' sound as she barreled into his chest, knocking him out onto the street. She landed on top of him, with a blade under his chin, the other not to subtly poking him in the ribs.

"My darling, if you wanted a tumble, you need not be so forceful about it. I know I am irresistibly attractive, but flinging yourself at me in the street is a bit unseemly, wouldn't you say?" came Zevran's mocking tone, light and amused.

Natia rolled her eyes in the dark, but didn't let him up. "Why're you sneaking into my house, huh?" she hissed, poking him in the ribs with the tip of her blade again, but taking care not to draw blood.

"I did not wish to wake you. I had thought, after the pub last night, that you might wish to sleep. Clearly that was an unnecessary concern. Now, are you going to move aside, or are you going to make this interesting?"

Natia felt her cheeks grow hot at that suggestion, but she doubted the assassin could see that in the was attracted to him, that was undeniable. But he was just too smooth, as though everything were merely an act for amusement. She could never tell what he really thought, or really felt. It was like everything was a game, and nothing was real. It unnerved and enraged her. She sheathed her blades and rolled off him, almost immediately regretting that decision, as her stomach and head seemed to keep rolling. She closed her eyes and took her head in her hands. Her stomach seemed even more upset than a few minutes ago, and it took her a moment to realize why.

"You smell like blood," she hissed, standing up and dragging Zevran by the collar into her sister's new swanky home. She pushed him into a chair that his dim, elf-bred eyes didn't seem able to see, lit a gas lamp and trained it on him.

Oh, he'd washed it off, or most of it anyway, but the smell was there. "Blood," she said softly, studying his recently cleaned face, hair and hands. "What happened?"

"An assassin never kisses and tells," Zevran quipped, arching an eyebrow.

Natia was about to respond, when there came the most deafening sound it is possible to hear in Orzammar—the castle bells were tolling. Natia felt as though something cold had just lodged in the pit of her stomach. She stared at Zevran in disbelief as people began to pour out of their homes. Her sister woke up screaming, so did the baby. Rica's scream of terror turned into a wail of grief as she realized what the sound that had woken her signified. Her cries joined others. Many others. The whole city was crying out at once.

Wynne rushed into the common room, staff in hand, ready to protect Natia's family from whatever was happening. Natia felt a wave of love and gratitude for the mage. "What's going on?" Wynne called out over the noise, eyes frantically darting between Natia's and Zevran's

_Zevran killed him_ Natia thought, but wouldn't say it. Her mind, working furiously, knew that no good could come from someone happening to hear those words aloud. Instead, she said "Bhelen's dead. The bells toll for fallen royalty."

"Really?" Zevran said, his eyebrows arching. "How unfortunate. Your city seems quite torn up by it. As does your sister."

Natia said nothing, eyes searching his face. But, as always, Zevran continued to stare at her with nothing but placid amusement. "Yes," Natia finally replied. "There will probably be an investigation."

"Those are always tedious affairs to which I doubt we could contribute much, since neither of us has even met the poor deceased prince," Zevran replied. "Perhaps we should be going." It wasn't a question.

"Surely we should help with the investigation," Wynne said, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room, "especially since this prince is practically Natia's brother in law."

"No," Natia said, thoughts flying across her mind. "No, Wynne, we should go. I'm a Grey Warden now. I cannot spare any time for my family. Regardless of what's happened here, there is a blight coming. And if we don't stop it, a lot more people are going to be dead."

"Are you sure, my dear?" Wynne asked, concern creasing her face.

"How very noble of you," Zevran smirked, "but that is the path of a Warden, is it not? Don't you see, my darling Wynne, she wants to stay and help her family, but she cannot. Family ties must be sacrificed for sacred duty. It is quite the tragic tale. And it is just my luck to be a part of such a tale, alongside two such beautiful heroines."

Wynne simply shook her head tiredly. "If you're sure, my dear" she said to Natia, who nodded silently, "alright."

It was then that Rica managed to make it out of her room. Stumbling with wild-eyed tears and hissing like a cat she advanced on them. "What did you do?!" She screamed at her sister.

"I've been here sleeping off a hang over all night," Natia replied coolly, "I didn't do anything."

"You _liar_. You filthy duster!" Rica hissed. Natia flinched. Her sister had never used that term as an insult before. "Couldn't you have left well enough alone. Couldn't you see we were happy?!"

"Ask the pub if you don't believe your sister," Zevran smoothly interjected. "She made quite a scene, you should have no trouble verifying her story. She was in no condition to walk, much less kill, last night." He bowed smartly, turned with a hand on Natia's shoulder, and escorted her and Wynne out of the house.

They were gone before the guards had sealed the gates, slipping out among the shadows.

"You should sit down, my darling," Zevran said as they approached camp. "The drink has left you unwell, I think."

"Oh, Natia, are you ill?" Wynne asked. "You know I don't approve of drinking. Though I can certainly understand. Sibling rivalry is always so difficult. This trip has been hard on you, dear, hasn't it?" She didn't wait for a response. "Why don't you sit here, and I'll get some hard biscuits from camp for you, and some strong coffee. I'm sure Bhodan will have brewed some by now."

The sun was just kissing the horizon. Natia nodded and sank tiredly to the ground. Her throat was dry and her head was certainly pounding, but she was a dwarf. They were tough. She could probably have continued to hike for another day and a half without food or drink if need be before collapsing, hangover or no. It wasn't pain that was making her so tired. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions.

"I will stay with our brave warden, and await your return," Zevran said as Wynne turned to leave. The woman bit her lip, glancing between the dwarf and the elf.

"Yes," she finally said, "you do that. Perhaps you two need a moment together."

Natia wondered briefly if Wynne was as oblivious as she had assumed. The mage was sharper than her kind nature let on.

Zevran sat down beside Natia and took a deep breath. "I mean no offense, my darling, but the air of your city stinks of rocks and weight. I do prefer the freshness and lightness out here. How your people manage to thrive without sunlight kissing their skin is—"

Natia barely heard what he was talking about. But she cut him off, needing to say this before Wynne got back. "Rica deserves better, they all do. And Harrowmont might actually help the casteless. I know its foolish to hope for change. But, with Bhelen in charge there wouldn't have been any hope at all. At least now. . . well. . . things might get better."

"So you are pleased the prince is dead. Excellent. That makes his unfortunate passing easier to deal with, no?"

Natia nodded. "Thank you," she said.

"For what, my darling," Zevran asked, with a jovial laugh, his expression disarmingly carefree and bewildered, as though he really didn't know what she was talking about.

_Damn him,_ Natia thought ruefully, a smile tugging at her lips, _He really betrays nothing_. _Could he look at you that calmly, with that friendly expression, as he slid a knife between your ribs?_She wondered._Yes, _she thought, _he likely could._She felt a shiver up her spine at that thought and wondered if she would see his betrayal coming. She didn't think so. If Zevran ever turned on her as Leskie had, Natia's first clue would probably be his blade sliding across her throat. No matter how attractive she might find him, Natia knew she couldn't allow herself to ever let her guard down around him.

Still, she needed to let him know that she was grateful. She took his hand in hers, and squeezed it softly. "Just. . . thank you. Okay?"

He met her gaze and she was startled to see the amused mask slipping from his face, replaced by an expression Natia couldn't entirely read, but one that made her heart race. His eyes were dark and intense, and his expression deadly serious. "Anything for you," he said softly, for once no mocking purr in his voice. And Natia felt the smallest pressure of his hand squeezing hers back.


End file.
